We are always caught
with our mouths open
and our hands straining
against each other,
our knuckles sliding
in fisted grooves.

We must choose
our friction- the rub
of cotton on denim,
the soft part of my hand
on the tense of your neck,
or the hiss of razor burn
rough against my lips.

12/09/2003

Posted on 12/09/2003
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